


at the soundless dawn

by omegaxibir



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bees, Domestic Fluff, Drug Addiction, Fire, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Slow Burn, also this is my first ever ?? fic so let me know where to improve pls, farmer au, implied genyatta throughout until that becomes a reality, lots and lots of bees, the reapyatta will be a bit longer but, the roadhog/junkrat should be here in a chapter or two don't worry, this is gonna be surprisingly lighthearted?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2018-11-29 16:58:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11445135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omegaxibir/pseuds/omegaxibir
Summary: There is peace to be found in the stain of dirt, the smell of pine and mulch, the buzzing of bees. Tekhartha has carved his own space close to nirvana on his Texas farm, and endeavors to share that with those who need it most. He has a history of hiring those nobody else will, knowing the importance of second - and third, and fourth - chances.Jamison Fawkes, fresh out of rehab, isn't too sure about this whole idyllic farm-life thing, but his new employer's ex-boyfriend, Mako Rutledge, quickly makes farm-life the only one worth pursuing.Together, Jamie and Tekhartha experience the pinnacles and pitfalls of romance, life, and the farm.





	1. A swarm

**Author's Note:**

> I'm ass at writing summaries, so here's some clarification: Zenyatta is a second-gen Nepalese immigrant who runs a small farm in south-west Texas. He hires primarily ex-convicts and recovering addicts, in an attempt to help them get back on their feet and facilitate a return to the world at large. I'll expand more on that in later chapters! c: Romance is definitely incoming, sooner rather than later, but for now, it's a lot of cuteness and fluff. 
> 
> Send me messages/questions about details &etc at [oyasumirobot](oyasumirobot.tumblr.com)! Feedback is greatly, greatly appreciated!

“Sunscreen, Jamison.”

Before his mouth has closed, Jamie's has already opened, streaming a series of complaints and what might have been insults; with the slang Jamie used, Tekhartha was never certain. Shrugging them off, Tekhartha stepped into the doorway to block Jamison's way, a half-used tube of sunscreen proffered out to him.

“Ya do know I lived in the outback before this shitehole, mate? Sun beatin' down, all day, ev'ry day? Texas ain't got anythin' on Sydney.” His face scrunches up, trying to wave it away. Tekhartha doesn't bat an eye.

“You told me that last week, Jamison, and it actually got me curious. It turns out, we're actually closer to the equator than Sydney is.”

Jamison levels an uncomprehending look at him, as though daring him to explain further. Lucky for him, Tekhartha is more than happy to do so.

“It means even more direct sunlight, which is already hazardous in small doses. With the hours we will be pulling today, the sun will be attempting some major damage. Sunscreen, Jamison, or you'll bake like an apple pie.”

He's amused, rather than annoyed, when the younger man snatches the tube from him, haphazardly applying it across his face. Petulant and bratty as a child, Tekhartha thinks, shaking his head. He had already learned that talking sense into him wasn’t much of an option, all you could do was wear him down – and with Tekhartha's infinite patience, that was easily done.

“There. Ya happy? I'm greasy as a chiko roll an' ready ta sweat it all off in twenty minutes. Now can I get ta _work,_ Tek?” Having tossed the sunscreen onto the nearby table, Jamison stands with arms outstretched, small eyes squinted against the sun, smears of white sunscreen still clinging to cheekbones and fingertips. At least he's remembered his boots today, Tekhartha thinks idly, then corrects himself: _boot._ Jamison had hemmed and hawed at the notion of putting workboots onto his prosthetic foot, and after witnessing the ordeal, Tekhartha had agreed that it wasn't worth the hassle. The remaining good foot, though, was obligingly covered in thick leather and rubber, laces tucked into his sock, rather than tied.

With Jamie, Tekhartha took what he could get.

“I'm delighted, actually, Jamison. Today is lovely, as are you.”

Behind his back, Jamie pulls a face, hobbling after him as Tekhartha makes his way out the door and toward the flower gardens. Making his way through the uneven dirt was tricky, but he'd figured out the rhythm, made mental notes of each dip and hole in the terrain. Good arm stretched out, he let his fingers dance over the line of geraniums, touching each leaf and flower in his way.

“Where we workin' today, boss? I'm not too sure me back can take another day of weed pullin'.”

Looking over his shoulder to him, Tekhartha considers their options, running through the daily checklist in his head. Flowers need mulching, the potato patch needs another round of pesticides, and it's about time to check in on the bees... to say nothing of the usual tasks. No rest for the weary. A smile curves his lips, and he reaches to the mala beads around his throat, touching three in quick succession. The path he'd been weaving through the rows of flowers curves to the right, and Jamie, more interested in the flowers than Tekhartha, yelps as he half-collides with his employer, hand grabbing at his shoulder to steady himself. Tekhartha goes still, an arm around Jamison's waist lending him just enough balance to stay on his feet.

“Sorry, mate. Ya know how my head is,” Jamie gives by way of half-hearted apology, grinning down at the shorter man.

“No apologies, Jamison. No harm done, hmm? To answer your question, though, I thought we'd handle the bee boxes today. We'll give your back as much of a break as we can. Does that sit easy with you?” Tekhartha gestures past a row of budding marigolds and dahlias to a stout, brightly painted wooden box. Even at this distance, there's the telltale low thrum of a swarm, a fuzz in the air caused by dozens of bees flitting to and fro. Jamison squints at it for a moment before a honey-bee buzzes past his face, catching all of his attention. The little thing seems so fragile, he thinks, eyes following its looping path through the air. It lights on a flower near his knee, clambering over delicate petals to reach the pistil; noticing Jamie's preoccupation, Tekhartha steps closer, slowly crouching down to examine it.

It is easy for Tekhartha to lose himself in that microcosm, carefully controlling his breath so as not to disturb the bee, eyes catching every infinitesimal detail of its creation. He swears that his heart, and time itself, slows so that he might longer indulge in it. 

This is peace.

“Bees? Aye. I could deal with 'em. How many we talkin', Tek?” The moment fades as the Aussie's voice rings through the air, managing to instantly wrench them both fully back to the present. Even Jamie looks a little startled at the interruption, seeming to frown at his own voice. They blink, grounding themselves, as Tekhartha hoists himself to his feet once more, brushing idly at the dirt spotting his linen trousers.

“I've eight boxes, and I'd like to check them all. It shouldn't take long, I think,” he responds airily, resuming his way to the nearest box. “Would you like a suit? I've got one in the barn, if you'd like.”

“A... suit?” Jamie asks, chewing on the word as though it were utterly foreign to him.

“A _bee_ suit.”

“Oh! Bee suit. Nah. A little bee sting never hurt anybody,” he announces proudly, wedging his prosthetic foot in the dirt a few feet away from the box, letting him lean his weight onto it and give his other leg a break. Tekhartha declines to point out the prevalence of bee allergies, instead chuckling to himself and sliding off the canvas bag on his shoulders. It was an unorthodox thing, perhaps, but Tekhartha had taken to bringing much of his essential equipment with him, rather than going to and from the shed. _Efficiency,_ he'd impressed upon Jamison during his first day, _is key._ Gloves, sunscreen, water and snacks, shears, and plenty more accompanied him everywhere he went, making Jamie think of him as something like a camp mom: ready for anything.

As he rummages around, searching for the telltale texture of netting and plastic, he talks: “You'll need to be gentle with them. Gentler than you expect, or else they'll get anxious, and you'll find yourself with a dozen stingers in your arm. Mostly, I'll ask you to watch me. Just to learn, you understand.”

“But-”

“It will still be hands on, Jamie. I assure you.” He laughs, glancing up at the man, who looks mostly assuaged. “You watch to learn, then try. This is just a check-up on them, to make sure they're doing well. Making sure their queen is healthy, that they've got new young, honey stored up... that sort of thing.”

Nodding sagely, Jamie pretends he knows what, exactly, that all means.

“Ah! There we are.” He pulls out a pale sheet of plastic, and hands it to Jamie, who turns it cluelessly over in his hands.

“Right. Of course. Just gotta have... this... _thing._ Ya sure are prepared, Tek.” He flips it over, noting a fine mesh of netting, and a harder plastic dome, before it finally clicks. “A bee hat? I said I didn't want no bee suit, I'm fine as!” He insists, a scowl bringing together his fierce eyebrows. Although ready to argue it, one look at Tekhartha tells him he's not likely to win this fight: hazel colored eyes are narrowed, lip put forth slightly in a way that Jamie has already learned to mean that he's readying some sort of colorful metaphor to strongarm him into following his rules.

_Always_ those bloody rules.

“That we will experience pain is inevitable, Jamison. That we should suffer, is not. You'll wear the bee veil, or the bees will protect themselves in the best way they know how: by hurting you. Here. You wear the veil, and you can be the one to smoke them down.” Next out of his endlessly deep bag comes a peculiar device, almost similar to a teapot. Jamie recognizes this one, if only by merit of many years of cartoons; it's a bee smoker. Rapidly putting two and two together, Jamie hastens to find the hole in the mesh of the veil, plonking it quickly onto his head as a dirty hand reaches eagerly for the smoker.

Tekhartha hadn't forgotten his proclivity towards fire and all things associated. He simply had to hope that, under his instruction, he'd actually listen, or else over-smoke the hive. Not for the first time today, Tekhartha prays for small blessings, fingers touching three more mala beads as he sends his well-wishes up and out into the world.

“Howzit work, eh? Got a lil combustion engine inside? No, no, too small for that, 'm guessin' it's...” He devolves into rapidly mumbling to himself, that ever-keen mind eager to understand its inner workings. If left to his own devices, Tekhartha suspected he'd tear the machine apart, and build it back even better. No amount of engineering school could teach the sort of zest and inner spark Jamison seemed to have for machinery, even if the mechanics who had rejected his resume claimed otherwise. 

Silent, Tekhartha reaches over, gently unlatching the top and scooping out a handful of ashes. Jamison’s eyes are intent on him as he crouches down, gathering a scant handful of pine needles, the crisp, heady smell mixing with that of flowers and ashes to excite and overwhelm Jamie’s senses. Tekhartha’s clever fingers pack the pine into the barrel of the smoker, then snap the lid closed, thumb flicking over a small metal tab on its side. Once, twice, three times he pulls the tab, and it occurs to Jamie, finally, that it’s a flint fire-starter. The realization is confirmed a moment later, when the tantalizing scent of fire hits his nostrils. His skin pricks, a shiver running down his spine at the memories it stirs. A smile has bared his teeth before he realizes it, and he dips his head in closer, taking a deep sniff. 

“Are you alright, Jamison?” Tekhartha asks carefully, watching him closely but not moving to pull the smoker away from him. In his time hiring recovering addicts, he has learned that one can never quite guess or anticipate a trigger, what small, forgettable experience can uproot someone’s world. Perhaps, despite his proclivities, it’s fire. 

“Am I alright?! Oi, who d’ya think I am? ‘S a clever little thing ya got there, this smoker-ma-jig. We settin’ the hives on fire?!” 

A tiny sigh of something like relief escapes the farmer, and he shakes his head, gesturing once more to the bee boxes. 

“No, that’s an extremely small, controlled flame. It’s just for the smoke, which isn’t even terribly hot.” Always needing to test the waters, Jamison immediately passes his hand through it, then gives a satisfied nod when he has confirmed Tekhartha’s words. “The smoke will put the hive into... a bit of a sleepy stasis, I suppose, is the easiest way to explain it. They won’t pay us much mind, which is just what we want. Here, go ahead, Jamie. Ease it into the cracks, there you are...” 

Tekhartha’s soothing words are a near comical contrast to the look of wild excitement on Jamie’s face, and the eagerness with which he sets forth. 

_“Night night, bees!!”_

 

\--//-- 

 

“So, ‘bout tha bees...” His fingers tap against the wooden table, gnawing at his lip as he levels an intense stare on Tekhartha. The farmer clasps a glass of sweet tea close to him, relishing in the frosty condensation as a brief respite from the sweltering heat. A sip, and he nods, beckoning Jamie to spit out what has no doubt been festering in his mind all throughout lunch. 

“Ya said they like the flower colors, eh? Izzat what attracts the bees to ‘em? Or do the bees just... _know_?” 

“Bees live their lives as we do. As such, it’s a mix of both. They find themselves drawn inexorably towards some things, knowing their need for it, but others they approach simply out of curiosity, rather than desire. I’ve seen the bees swarm brightly colored things before, though, if that answers your question.” He moves to refill Jamison’s tea as he speaks, giving something for Jamie to focus his gaze on. It’s his third glass in ten minutes, but Tekhartha tells him, as he does at every lunchtime, _what is mine is yours; drink as much as you like._

“What colors are best for ‘em? Ya got a pen?” 

Tekhartha gives him a curious look, a soft laugh escaping him as he stands from the table, making his way across the room. “What is it you’re planning, Jamison? Are you going to make off with one of my hives, hmm?” He teases, calling over his shoulder. 

“Steal ‘em? I ain’t gonna do ya dirty like that, Tek! S’just, I liked the bees quite a bit. ‘M thinkin’ about paintin’ me fake arm a color they’d like. Imagine a nice lil swarm of ‘em on there, makin’ friends ‘n such.” 

Not for the first time in their short acquaintanceship, Tekhartha marvels at the thoughts barreling through Jamison’s head. The notion pulls an easy, genuine smile from him, and he hands over a pen, sliding back into his chair. “I suppose I can’t stop you, and truthfully, I don’t see a reason to. I think it’s a lovely idea. There’s no guarantee they’ll have any interest in your arm, but perhaps you’re onto something. I think every hive would be different, but my hives have been favoring purple flowers for a long while now. Hmm, although, yellow would be a close contender...” 

Jamison pops the pen cap, lifting his right arm to rest on the table. There’s no hesitation or second thoughts when he begins furiously scribbling onto the skin of his bicep, scrawling out messy letters in a haphazard line down to his elbow. The self-satisfied, pleased look on his face is contagious, provoking another melodic laugh from Tekhartha. Jamie flashes a quick grin, chugging down half his glass of tea and smacking his lips. 

“Tomorrow, you and them bees are gonna have a big surprise, Tek.”


	2. Tekhartha Zenyatta: Gay?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a bad start, Jamie spends the day struggling with addiction, and does whatever he can to distract himself - including baking and being his usual nosey self.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please, please note that this chapter deals heavily with addiction! Heroin and Xanax are specifically mentioned in context of being abused; please be careful with reading this, if it will be an issue for you! 
> 
> That being said, the second half of this is primarily just some cute fluff of Jamie being a nosey shit. Features some hints towards some nice ships for both Tek and Jamie! 
> 
> I've had this written for a week and procrastinated revising and editing it. What can ya do.  
> As ever, send some prompts/questions about the fic or any pairings to my tumblr, [lilandroid](lilandroid.tumblr.com). Decent chance I'll spit out a little one-shot for any requests (:

It is 7:03, and the bus is not here. Jamison blinks down at the time on his phone, carefully counting the minutes, and realizes that the bus is now eight minutes late. For a city claims to pride itself on its efficiency and punctuality, today’s bus driver is doing a fantastic job of smearing that reputation. Grumbling to himself, he taps his prosthetic leg against the bench, his other leg joining in nervous jitters a moment later. Patience has never been his strong suit, but he tries. What else can he do? 

“It ain’t comin’!” He exclaims several minutes later, jerking to his feet with enough force to strain his bad leg, sending a spasming pain up his thigh. “I gotta call Tek, tell ‘im I’m gonna be late, and...” He trails off, eyes lighting on the shiny new poster hanging on the inside of the bus shelter. 

CELEBRATING A BRAND NEW BUS LINE, MARCH 1ST! 

Beneath the headline, there’s a series of charts, numbers, and street names, all heralded by the nearly frightening visage of a cartoonish, smiling bus. Jamison takes a moment to read the bold text, has to summon the will to re-read it when his brain doesn’t absorb it the first time. Bus line... He folds double to more closely examine the poster, squinting as he reads number by number, slowly mumbling them to himself in hopes that it will help him to make sense of it. 

The chart, he decides after several minutes of frenzied re-reading, must be the times for the buses. A prosthetic finger taps against a row labelled with the street corner he’s standing on. He follows the row and reads the number, then doubts himself, realizing he’s skipped two rows down; he tries again, and proceeds to read the numbers in the wrong order. Frustrated anxiety wells up in his chest, prompting his brain to swim with nonsensical numbers, his mind beginning to hyperfocus on the sound of traffic and the sound of his own heart all at once. Gritting his teeth until they creak under the pressure, he squeezes his eyes closed until he sees pops of color instead of phantom numbers, willing himself to focus on the swirls and patterns his brain conjures. He needs to focus on just one thing, _anything_ , instead of _everything_.

 

Instead, he finds himself in a reverie of the time he saw a fish with colors just like those painting his eyelids. He’d been a pretty thing, shimmery, the sort of illusory coloring that lets you see a little of every shade of the rainbow. His scales had looked just like liquid silver, and he wonders what sort of fish that’d been. Maybe he can’t have rats and mice in his apartment, but surely they’d let him keep a pretty fish like that. His clenching teeth ease apart, his hands jittering ineffectually as they slap at his leg, and he starts to wonder if Tekhartha cooks fish, and if he’d ever make them fish for lunch, if he asked. 

_Tek! Now’s not the time,_ he hisses to himself, making a frustrated noise in his throat and knocking his own knuckles into his forehead. _Tek needs me at work, so I gotta figure out this new bloody bus situation,_ he impresses on himself, rubbing dirty fingers against his cheeks and eye sockets. 

_It’d be so much easier,_ he thinks tiredly, _if I had something to slow me down, help me think._ Now, as ever, he finds himself aching for that chemical smell, the ritual leading up to injection. Heroin would make none of this bus bullshit matter at all, wouldn’t it? That snake of addiction sidles up close to him, tongue flickering at his ear, telling him that it’s easier, more comfortable, more worthwhile, more, more, more... 

And the bus rolls up. 

Knocked back to the present, Jamie opens his eyes again, staring blankly and gnawing at his lip as he straightens himself up, trying to find his footing back in the real world. He could turn around, head home and make a few calls and maybe find a dealer here -- he’s got enough money for a few hits... 

Or maybe he should just go to work. 

“You gettin’ on, kid?” The bus driver calls impatiently, giving him a mildly annoyed look. Jamie shifts from leg to leg, adjusting his heavy backpack and mentally counting up the money in his pockets. It’s enough. He could do it. 

“... yeah, I’m gettin’ on.” 

\--//-- 

Tekhartha meets him at the end of the long road to his property, sitting patiently amidst a flock of his chickens and amusedly watching them peck at his boots. He rises to greet Jamie when the bus slides to a stop, Jamie leaning heavily against the bus railing as he navigates the tall steps. There’s a scowl on his face harsh enough to melt asphalt, but it doesn’t stop Tekhartha from approaching him, arms wide. The other stays stiff throughout the brief hug, not reciprocating, but Tek doesn’t remark on it, just gives his usual cheery smile. 

“I know, I know. ‘M late, the buses were... different this time,” Jamie snaps, before Tekhartha can say anything; he’s already angry with himself, he doesn’t need an ass-chewing from Tek, too. He’d spent half the thirty minute ride here lamenting the fact that he hadn’t paid attention to the schedule changes earlier, that he’d never once noticed the new poster, or the fliers taped onto the bus windows. The other half had been spent clicking his teeth and bouncing his legs, reliving a dozen different highs and promising himself, _when ya get home, Jamie, you can find a dealer, get a hit, and then you’ll be just so._

But Tekhartha doesn’t need to know that. 

“Were you late?” Tekhartha sounds genuinely surprised, dark eyebrows lifting as he glances down at the old-fashioned watch around his wrist. “Oh, I suppose so, hm? Don’t worry about it, Jamison. It’s a boon to the farming lifestyle that, really, we make our own hours.” 

Jamie grunts in response, hoisting his backpack higher and pushing his way through the flock of chickens, nearly kicking one out of the way in his irritable haste. Tekhartha trails behind him at a rather more leisurely pace, carefully watching Jamie’s hunched back, hearing trickles of a grumbled conversation with himself. Something isn’t sitting right with Jamie, that’s certain, but Tekhartha decides to leave it be. Let him not be treated always as an addict, just for a day. Let him be Jamison Fawkes, not Jamison Fawkes: addict. 

“I’ve got your coffee brewed at the house, if you’d like some. A bit of leftovers from breakfast, as well, if you’ve yet to eat,” Tekhartha calls forward, their differing paces forcing Jamie to slow down, and, in the process, let go of a bit of his anger. “Eggs and toast, fresh from the hens just this morning.” 

“...no bacon?” 

“No bacon.” 

Jamie finally gives in, offering a rueful grin as he scratches at his scarred scalp. “One o’ these days, I’m gonna convince ya to break that whole vegetarian shtick ya got goin’ on. Bacon’s worth it. Really.” 

Their usual chatter comes more strained than usual, the silences longer, heavier, but Tekhartha doesn’t let it change anything. He’s as unbothered and inimitable as ever, serene as he watches the sun hike slowly higher and higher into the sky, even as Jamie snaps about the heat, rambling about the tribulations of his latest sunburn on his way through the front door. Let him get his frustrations out this way, he thinks. He doesn’t mind being a bit of a punching bag, if Jamison really needs it. 

But really, it’s mostly one-sided. Jamison doesn’t mind chattering to a wall, and doesn’t need much prompting to keep going. Even as he shoves toast into his mouth, he’s yammering about the possibility of owning a fish, asking Tek if he knows where to get a tank for ‘like, _real_ cheap, ya know?’ Gentle admonishments of 'manners, Jamison!' are met with annoyed grunts, chewing with his mouth closed for but a minute before reverting to his usual ways. 

Even with the distractions and kindness that Tekhartha gives him, however, that snake is still right there, curled around his throat now, threatening to strangle him with the need to acknowledge it. He’s reasoning with it internally, trying to build a case to convince himself that no, really, you don’t need it. It tuts at him, caresses his ear, and does what it does best: persuades. 

Maybe you don’t need heroin, then, do you, Jamison? But some Xanax? You haven’t been able to think properly in weeks, have you? Can hardly even sleep, poor thing. The Xanax was prescribed, what’s so wrong with that? They don’t even know what drug abuse is. You _needed_ that Xanax, Jamison, and you still do. 

Even as he goes into hyperattentive detail of the vision he has in mind for the fishtank, he’s wrestling that snake in his head, and losing with each word. His sentences are halting, floundering to remember his train of thought. Tekhartha doesn’t stop him when he goes from from discussing decorations to how many fish he can fit in a single tank without any segue. Doesn’t complain or even look annoyed when he stops mid-sentence to thank him for the toast, asks him again about bacon, and then waves his newly painted arm in the air. 

“I went with purple. Tha color of royalty, didja know that? Ya think the bees’ll like it?” 

Not even his smile is patronizing, managing to avoid treating Jamison like an energetic child, something Jamie had confessed early on was one of his pet peeves. 

“I love it, actually. If you’d like, I could paint a line of prayers in yellow - a blessing for the bees, perhaps?” Tekhartha suggests, finishing his glass of tea and turning to the sink to rinse it. 

“Hmm. Maybe. I like it how it is, for now, I think. See if the bees like it at all. Feels like bad mojo to paint a blessing on it then find out they hate it,” Jamie answers seriously, running a finger across the thorough, but uneven, paint job. Three coats of paint and a bathroom reeking of fumes later, he’d managed to get the project done, and he’s still proud of it, despite his gloomy bad mood. 

“You’re right,” Tekhartha agrees, nodding sagely. Slender, dark hands pull at his own cuffs, straightening them out before he begins the meticulous process of rolling them up, revealing surprisingly muscular biceps for such an unimposing man. “One step at a time. After lunch, we can head to the garden and see if they’ve an interest in it.” 

“After lunch? We not workin’ today?” Jamie asks, brows furrowing in mild confusion. Today wasn’t Sunday, so he was supposed to work today... he’s reasonably certain. 

“You seemed in a bad mood, so I thought that working under the sun was likely to compound that. The others, Xinyi and Kailao, can handle the gardens today, I think. I have some indoor work I could certainly use some help with, regardless, so it seems that you are my best option. Do you know how to bake, Jamison?” 

“S’that a trick question?” 

Tekhartha can’t help but laugh at that, hazel eyes shining with amusement. He moves as he talks, tidying up the remnants of breakfast and clearing off counters in preparation. “You’ve taught me not to underestimate you, so I wasn’t certain whether you’d delved into the world of baking before or not. Usually I do my baking alone, but I think you might rather enjoy it, once you get the hang of it.” Jamison eyes him with an expression nearing suspicion, as if expecting Tekhartha to bust out a punch line _any second now_. He focuses intently on his words, analyzing each one for part of the inevitable joke. “...but the first farmer’s market of the season is this weekend, so I wanted to bring plenty of goods to sell. I’ll bring you with me to run the stall as well, if you’d like. For now though, if you’d help me with putting the doughs together, I’d be incredibly appreciative.” 

There’s a heavy, expectant silence as each waits for the other to respond. When it finally becomes clear that no punchline is forthcoming, Jamie clears his throat, gesturing widely. “Mate, you pay me twelve bucks an hour. For that kind of money, I’d help ya clean the bloody pig shite up with me bare hand.” 

“...I’ll take that as a _yes_ , then?” 

“Aye.” 

\--//--

Jamison lost track of the numbers and kinds of dough an hour ago. Tekhartha has saran-wrapped each of them, carefully labelling them with numbers and names in that meticulous handwriting of his, but honestly, Jamie still can’t tell one from the next. The mantra of ‘ _sift, knead, prove_ ’ is going to be roiling around in his head for the next week, and he’s pretty certain that flour is on every _inch_ of his body, but when he looks around, he feels a slight swell of pride in his chest. 

He did this. He made them with his own hands -- hands which ache from relentlessly kneading dough after dough, hands still caked with flour and semolina. 

“So, the shoe dough is done now, aye?” 

Tekhartha glances up from the bowl he’s labelling, a perplexed expression twisting his usually serene expression. “Shoe..?” 

“That one ya said yer gonna turn into puffs!” 

“Choux dough! Yes, that one doesn’t need to rise. I’ll get it into the oven shortly, after I’ve done a bit of cleaning.” There’s half a bag of flour scattered on the tile floor, butter caked into every surface, and an overwhelming aroma of yeast; Tekhartha is certain he’s going to find a forgotten bowl of blooming yeast in about an hour’s time, tucked into some dark corner of the kitchen. It’s not normally such a messy endeavour, but Tekhartha doesn’t complain of Jamie’s innate messiness, nor the countless cups his prosthetic arm had knocked over. ' _Nothing wrong with a bit of mess,_ ' he’d told Jamison with a smile, flicking his own handful of flour onto the floor. Nothing wrong with it at all. 

“I don’t mind handling most of the cleaning, Jamison, if you’d like to take a break. I can call you back once I’m ready to start properly baking,” Tekhartha offers, wiping his face against his shoulder, a stack of bowls balanced precariously against his belly and chest. 

There’s not a chance in hell Jamie is going to turn down a break, especially if it means skipping out on cleaning time. Tekhartha has begun to wonder if he’s _allergic_ to soap. “Sure! Ya mind if I watch a bit of telly?” He’s gone before he’s finished his own sentence, heavy footsteps marking his journey to the livingroom. 

Sighing, Tekhartha looks around him, noting small hills of flour-caked utensils, whisks clogged with dough, bowls slippery with butter. 

Nothing wrong with a bit of mess. 

Time to get to work. 

\--//--

Telly can only occupy a man for so long. In Jamison’s case, about ten minutes. Five of those are spent on cartoons, the other five on a re-run of a Maury episode, which reminds him too much of home, making him all but recoil even as he continues to watch in disgusted repulsion. Only the commercial break is able to snap him from his reverie, and he has enough sense of mind to decide that today, with his snake of addiction so close at hand, Maury is not good for him. 

He flips back to cartoons, but stands up, wandering about the wood-panelled room to peer at anything and everything. Photographs get the closest scrutiny, though he picks up a small metal horse trinket to turn in his hand as he looks about. There’s a framed photograph of who he figures has to be Tekhartha, wearing brightly colored robes, arm in arm with a man of similar appearance. Maybe he’s family, he thinks, tapping at his chin with his prosthetic finger, the other hand still occupied with the trinket. Two pictures later, he revises that assumption: Tekhartha is standing on his toes to kiss the same man, who is leaned in intimately. Jamie recognizes Tek’s handwriting at the bottom, labelling it as ‘ _with Mondatta, at Nepali Mandir_.’ 

It’s weird to think of Zenyatta being gay as well, he thinks, leaning in even closer. Although, he figures, anyone who paints his bee boxes like that? Has to be gay. Straight men don’t do that, he’s pretty sure. Is he still with that Mondatta guy? Surely not. He’s never heard him mention anything, definitely hasn’t seen him invite a guy over. 

Turning on his heel, he peers into the kitchen, watching Tekhartha’s strong back as he washes bowls. _Gay?_ He repeats again in his head, trying to see it. Gay farmer. He’s pretty sure that kind of thing only happened in movies, but here he is. He’s dying to know more, to get _real_ confirmation, but knowing Tekhartha’s penchant for zen non-answers, he doubts he’d get anything more than a telling off for prying. 

That means it’s time to investigate. Jamison limps away as quietly as he’s able, hoping the running water is enough to mask his steps. Down the hallway, past the bathroom, there’s an open door. A peek inside reveals a tightly-packed line of bookshelves, filled to the brim with almanacs, farming guides and textbooks, and a myriad of religious and philosophical texts. To one side of the small room is a plain, thinly padded chair, the wall around it hung with Buddhist imagery. The other side is host to a desk stacked high with papers and notes, an old-model computer fuzzy with dust sitting precariously near the edge. 

An office? _Jackpot._

He slips inside, running a hand along a line of books on his way to the heavy oaken desk taking up most of the room. Cracking his knuckles, Jamison plops down, pulling at the central drawer in hopes of finding a journal, diary, _anything._ Instead, he finds mountains of paperclips and pencils, and a checkbook tucked neatly towards the back. Once, Jamie wouldn’t have hesitated to stuff it into his pockets, would have had a week-long binge before hopping off to the next town to evade the cops, but... he’s trying to put those days behind him. The snake all but chokes him, telling him that they’re not behind him, they’ll never be behind him, but he fights it off, closing the drawer with a snap and taking a deep breath. 

_No stealing. No drugs. Not anymore, Jamison Fawkes. You deserve better. So does Tek._

He gives himself a moment, head still roiling with turmoil and possibilities, before he reminds himself of his self-given mission. _Tekhartha Zenyatta: Gay?_

Reinvigorated and eager to distract himself, he leans forward, grabbing at a wad of papers. The first few are filled with charts and numbers, and are rather uninteresting. He puts those aside, grumbling to himself as he searches through the rest. It’s all much the same, until he notices an envelope leaning against a stack of books. It’s labelled already, stamped and sealed, and he’s sorely tempted to open it, see what’s within, and learn just why a certain Mr. Genji Shimada is getting snail mail from Tekhartha. 

Does he know how to reseal the envelope? Maybe with a bit of glue he could do it. But what if he accidentally ripped it? As reckless as he is, there’s too much that could go wrong, too much that would make his tampering obvious. 

Sitting back dejectedly, he glowers around the room, once again on the lookout for something like a journal. He could flip through the books here, see if they’re disguised journals, but he doubts he’d have the time before Tek comes yelling for him. Maybe the computer..? It looks like it hasn't been turned on in a decade, honestly, so probably not his best bet. He pulls at one drawer, and then the next, finding nothing but stacks of payroll and farming figures, before he gives up, kicking his legs out and knocking over the trashcan in the process. Huffing and puffing, he leans over, gathering up empty pens and scraps of paper, and-- 

_There we are!_ It’s crumpled up, the corner stained with ink, but still fully legible, the telltale formal address of a _letter_ catching his eye. Maybe it was the rough draft of what’s in the envelope, if he’s lucky. He has to calm himself, eyes flitting down the paper too quickly to process it, before he can properly read it. 

_My dearest Genji,_

_As always, I hope this letter finds you well. It’s spring, here, and the primroses have just begun to bloom; each time I step outside, I am greeted with their scent, and they remind me of you. I wish that I could walk you through my gardens, Genji, and teach you the names of everything I grow. One day, when you need a respite from the city and your family, I hope to find you at my doorstep. I would welcome you with open arms, but you know that.  
I find myself reminiscing of our time together at the temple, of the smiles that came so easily to you back then. Life presents us both many challenges and hurdles, but it is my most fervent hope that, one day, we might be able to return to that ease of life and love, however briefly. Though the river of life calls us in different directions, I will follow its tide, and one day we will reunite at life’s reservoir. _

Jamison reads the half-finished letter through twice, lingering in certain areas, rolling the words around on his tongue in an effort to parse the many meanings of each delicate phrasing. There’s not much reading between the lines necessary, however, with how overt Tek’s advances are; without a doubt, this Genji bloke is the lucky recipient of Tekhartha’s romantic intentions. 

_Just who is this Genji, to turn him down?!_ Jamie thinks angrily, wadding up the letter to shove into his pocket. _A guy like Tekhartha? He’s practically a saint,_ he thinks, trudging back towards the livingroom, where the telltale music of Tom and Jerry continues to blare. _Tek deserves somebody nice, someone who **will** fight against whatever tide to come be with him. This Shimada guy? Fuck ‘im. _

“Oh, Jamison, there you are,” Tekhartha interrupts his train of thought, poking his head out of the kitchen doorway.

Without batting an eye, Jamie grins, gesturing behind him. “Bathroom.” 

“Come wash your hands, mm? If you’d like, you can help me to decorate some of the cream puffs; I went ahead and baked them, between rounds of dishes. We’ve got to decorate a few as pigs, for an old friend of mine. I thought you might like to take the reins on that. Take as much artistic liberty as you’d like, they’re a gift.” 

Jamison salutes him, clicking his feet awkwardly together. “Pigs? Oi, I’m right on it, Tek!” 

“And yes, Jamison, you can eat as many as you like.” 

“You just read me mind, Tek.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note - the temple mentioned, Nepali Mandir, is a real temple in Texas! Surprisingly, Texas has a very sizable Nepalese population, and they've created their own neighborhood in Irving. Zenyatta doesn't live in that area anymore, but he used to..! 
> 
> Next chapter features Roadhog, Mei, and more~


	3. The horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamison and Tekhartha spend the day running the farmer's market, where someone new eclipses Jamie's life...

Times like these, Tekhartha is more certain than ever in his decision to become a farmer. The first dregs of sunlight warm his skin with gentle caresses, not yet hot enough to provoke sweat; the air is full-bodied and pure, reminding him what a treat breathing can be; early-morning birdsong mixes easily with the quiet discussions popping up around him, sweeter than any choir. He takes a moment to fully appreciate his surroundings, a tiny smile lighting up his face as he spins on his heels to take it all in. A few give waves and brief greetings, but they’re all hurrying to finish setting up their stalls - among them, Jamison Fawkes, who is attempting to balance half a dozen brilliantly purple cabbages. 

“Here, Jamie, I can handle those,” he offers along with an easy smile. Already frustrated, Jamie is all too happy to hand them over, giving a grunt and brushing his hands off on Tekhartha’s loaned overalls. 

Jamison steps back for a moment, giving a critical eye to their setup thus far: bushels of carrots, beets, parsnips and turnips sit at their feet, lined on either side with flowering herbs. A bin of purple garlic and onions sits to one side, a brilliant pop of bright colors that Jamie almost can’t peel his eyes away from, while another houses the more delicate kale and arugula. As he watches, Tekhartha finishes stacking the first of the cabbages into a precarious pyramid on the edge of their table, leaving most of the broad table completely empty. 

That part is reserved for Jamie’s favorite part of the whole lot - sweets. 

“Ya want me to go nab the rest from the van?” 

For anybody else, it’d be a reasonable, innocent request. For Jamison, it is not; he still has a smidge of pastry cream on his whiskered chin from where he’d stolen a fruit tart when Tek wasn’t looking. Jamie smiles and rocks on his heels, already tasting the caramel-apple muffins they’d wrapped in plastic the night before. 

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he responds mildly, then turns to his already retreating back to add, “If you eat much more of that sugar, you’ll be sick for the rest of the day, Jamie.” 

“Me body is a temple, and the only offerin’s it wants is sweets!” He calls back, cackling. 

“He’s going to vomit pure sugar by lunch,” Tekhartha mumbles, shaking his head. Still, he won’t be the one to force him to stop - he needs to learn moderation of his own accord, in his opinion. And besides, knowing vaguely of Jamie’s struggle from the day before, an overdose of sugar is far and away the preferable option. 

It’s not a short walk back to Tek’s van, but Jamie weathers it with ease, hobbling comfortably from foot to prosthetic foot. Keys jangle in his good hand as he swirls them between his fingers, nearly dropping them more than once. He scoots between rows of trucks and vans to get to Tekhartha’s dated old mini-van, sliding the key home to unlock the back door. 

When it slides open, it reveals a treasure horde. Muffins and breads are mixed in with carefully packaged tarts and cupcakes, and on the other end of the bench-style seat is a large tupperware filled to the brim with creampuffs; half are unadorned, but the rest are decorated with bubble-gum pink icing, painting cutesy pig snouts and ears onto the golden crust. Those ones are off limits, but the rest? Tek will never notice, will he? Testing those boundaries, he plops into the passenger seat and tucks into a muffin, not bothering to brush the crumbs from his face and clothing to hide his thievery. For good measure, he grabs a handful of cream puffs, and stuffs them into his pockets, to be eaten later in the day. 

Belly now pleasantly full and sugar just beginning to leach into his veins, he sets to turning himself into a pack mule. It takes several minutes of a precarious balancing act, but in the end he’s able to get almost all of the goods, even if it means they’re stacked so high in his arms that he can hardly see past them. 

Maybe this is all work designed to keep him busy, but really, Jamison doesn’t mind. He likes busy, he likes the distraction all of this affords. His brain will keep going wherever it wants, and that snake of addiction will keep hissing, but here, doing this? It doesn’t matter. It’s all just thoughts, as Tekhartha says. It’s just thoughts until you turn it into actions. 

That line of thought glances around his thick skull as he trudges back to the stall, allowing him to put the snake into a vicegrip and, if only for a moment, just exist. 

“Here’s the goods, as promised!” Jamison announces, having to half-squat in order to lower the sweets to table-level. Seated behind the table is Tekhartha, counting out cash from his lockbox and carefully writing it down in a section neatly labelled ‘ACCOUNTING’. 

“Oh, lovely, Jamie. Is that all of it? I’d figured it would take you three trips, at least-” He breaks off as he finally glances up from his rows of numbers, and immediately begins to giggle at the mountain of baked goods all but obscuring Jamison from him. “I should have guessed you’d be the type to find a way to make one trip.” 

“Well, there’s still a pie or two - those are a mite hard to balance without squashin’ ‘em - and some rolls, but this is most of it,” Jamie confesses, shrugging as he starts to arrange the goods, with no thought to organizing them by group - if it fits, he stuffs it there, giving a surprisingly homey and cluttered assortment of goods. Tekhartha doesn’t bother telling him otherwise. 

“That’s alright, we’ll keep those there until we start to run out of what we have here,” Tekhartha responds affably, going back to his figures. “By the way, those puffs in your pockets are going to squash or melt - or both.” 

“What puffs?!” Jamie counters, shooting a glance at the other, who just smiles into his notebook. 

“Mm,” He says, shaking his head. “It’s your loss.” 

By the time Tekhartha has finished sorting his makeshift register, most of the other stalls are arranged and open, biding their time until the early-morning shoppers make their way there. The exception, it seems, is the stall directly beside theirs, which remains conspicuously empty. Tipping his chair almost dangerously far back, Jamison gestures his prosthetic hand to it, then around to the rest of the plaza. 

“Why’d ya have me set that table up if nobody was gonna use it, huh?” He asks, not out of irritation but confusion. 

Tekhartha, who is poking through the baked goods with his pencil, glances over at it, then to the old analog watch at his wrist. “Oh, it’ll be used. My old friend uses that one, but he tends to err on the side of lateness. Hopefully he’ll be here soon.” 

The conversation breaks off as a customer approaches, requiring Tekhartha’s attention. Jamie pays them no mind, choosing instead to continue rocking his chair and stare out at the plaza as people begin slowly trickling in. Half of them seem to be fellow farming types, semi-poor country folk here to get their produce cheaper than what Wal-Mart will sell it, but the rest are clearly richer than the rest. Jamison doesn’t like the latter type one bit; he hates their nice clothing and expensive sunglasses, and how they all seem to have a stroller that costs more than his rent, and how they all seem to see this as some sort of strange novelty, to be shopping amongst real live farmers, like they’re a whole different brand of people. 

He’s in the middle of this semi-spiteful reverie when his chair - and then the stall itself - is bumped, nearly sending him tumbling backwards into the dust. Only by frantically grabbing the edge of the table is he able to keep himself upright, heart pounding at the near-death experience. Eyebrows knitting together in a flash of fury, he snaps his head around to see which undoubtedly yuppie type had been the one to slam into him-- 

And he sees god. 

Every word of anger dies on his lips, which form a near-comical ‘o’ of surprise, jaw hanging open. For a moment he forgets every bodily function, a failing that goes unnoticed until his lungs start to cramp and his eyes begin to burn. 

The man, whoever he is, is the finest piece of ass Jamison Fawkes has ever laid eyes on. He’s fat in all the right spots, and Jamie suspects there’s enough strength in those thick arms to rip him limb from limb. Overalls cover most of his girth, but a chubby hip peeks out from the layered shirt - Jamie prays to every god he knows that it had been that hip that nearly knocked him down. A shock of thin gray hair is hidden by a baseball cap with a fishing hook fitted against the bill, and salt-and-pepper stubble graces his wide cheeks and jaw. 

He wonders if this is a dream. There’s no way reality and his desires could collude so ideally - hell, he doesn’t think he deserves to be with someone so obviously perfect. 

Not that that has ever stopped him.

The man shuffles over to the table to his right, moving awkwardly given his enormous basket of goods, and sets it down heavily before turning to him. Jamison blinks rapidly, mouth continuing to gape like a fish as he tries to come up with something to say besides ‘please bump into me again.’ The guy steps forward as if to do so, and then offers a small smile. 

Jamie has felt heart attacks before. Already he’s sticking his hands into cream-puff filled pockets to find an aspirin, and he starts to smile in return: “M’name’s Jamison but you c’n call me-” 

“Oh, Mako!” 

He finally bothers to follow the line of his gaze, and finds himself craning his head behind, until his eyes lock on Tekhartha. Turning back around, he realizes the big guy isn’t looking at him at all -- in fact, he seems to be looking right through him. 

“- anytime,” He finishes awkwardly, nobody picking up on it. 

“I was hoping you’d still be able to make it. It’s good to see you,” Tekhartha says warmly, slipping behind Jamie’s chair to step closer to the guy - Mako? - and look up at him. “How was the drive down?” 

Instead of immediately responding, Mako leans in, carefully wrapping his massive arms around Tekhartha’s slender frame in a tight hug. Tekhartha smiles, burying his face into the man’s shoulder for a moment as he returns it. They linger there for a moment, Mako’s pressure on him unrelenting but pleasant, before he steps back, grunting in vague affirmation. 

“Made it alright,” he says finally, his voice coming as a deep baritone from somewhere in his gut. Jamie hears it as a rumble caressing his eardrums, and if he concentrates, he can feel the same physical pressure from it as no doubt came along with his hug. “Thanks for setting up.” 

“I had Jamie help with that, actually. He’s one of my newer employees. Jamison, this is the friend I mentioned, Mako. Mako, Jamison.” The introduction comes easily, as if Jamie isn’t quietly losing his mind at the opportunity to actually meet this man. 

“Call me. Err, I mean- call me Jamie,” He says, a little too enthusiastically. Before Mako can respond, Jamie is flinging his arms open and hugging him, face blessedly buried in the man’s burly chest. 

Rather than reciprocating, as he’d expected, Mako stiffens in his arms, looking confusedly and helplessly to Tekhartha, who springs into action. 

“Jamie- Jamie, you can’t do that, it’s not- oh- it’s not comfortable for Mako. He’s not good with contact,” he says hurriedly, gently touching at Jamie’s shoulder but restraining himself from pulling him off. It takes a minute for the words to sink in, but as soon as he gets it he lets go, stepping back and craning his neck to look him in the face. 

“But he hugged you,” he says petulantly, childlike in his disappointed confusion. 

“We’ve had a long time with one another to get used to physical contact. But others don’t have that history with him, Jamie,” Tek chides softly, casting a glance to Mako to make sure he’s alright. Mako just shrugs, fixing his overalls and taking a step back to create a bit more distance between them. 

“Oh.” Jamie blinks, but then unabashedly grins, sticking out his good hand. 

Mako stares at him for a moment, but ignores the offer of a handshake. “No harm, no foul,” he rumbles, shrugging again. There’s still a vague tension in the air, but Tekhartha is quick in his attempts to dispel it. Jamie lets his hand drop, then plops back down in his chair, eyes never leaving Mako’s girth. 

“You need some help setting up your stall, Mako?” Tekhartha asks, inclining his head at the haphazard stack of vegetables spilled across his table. Mako seems to consider the question for a second, keen eyes glancing between the two of them, before he nods. That’s all Jamie needs to be up like a shot, bouncing on one foot. 

“I’ll help ya out, big guy. Two hands are better than one, eh?” Tekhartha looks at Mako, but the man just nods, saying nothing more as he turns to make his way back to his truck. Tek doesn’t move to intervene; Mako is more than capable of taking care of himself and knowing his limits, and Jamison doesn’t tend to push at limits too hard... 

Jamie trots after him, already asking a dozen rapid-fire questions prying into Mako’s life. Tekhartha watches them go, eyebrow quirked and a tiny smile curving his lips. Although he may have been preoccupied with mitigating damages, Tekhartha hadn’t missed that expression of mingled awe and attraction. Maybe nothing would come of it, maybe something would. He’d give them the chance to figure it out for themselves. 

\--//-- 

With an extra, overeager pair of hands to help, unloading Mako’s truck takes no time at all. Mako carries the crates too heavy for Jamison to handle - although he had still tried to do it himself - and Jamie trots back and forth with an assortment of loose vegetables, even doing his best to drag a bushel of dried beans back to the stall. They’re stacked with none of the finesse of Tekhartha’s stall, no organization or attractive presentation necessary - anybody shopping here already knows the quality of Rutledge produce. 

Upon finishing, Mako stands for a second, hands on his chubby hips as he assesses his stall before he gives a nod. He squeezes past Jamie to carefully settle himself on the small folding chair behind the table; Jamie knows exactly what he’s doing in refusing to move, granting himself a brief second of contact between his own arm and Mako’s belly. Mako, for his part, seems either not to notice, or not to care. 

Jamison opens his mouth to say something, tongue already moving faster than his mind, when Tekhartha leans over, nudging him. A small container is proffered, the thin, clear plastic allowing him to recognize the contents as cream puffs. Not just any cream puffs - the cream puffs, the ones he had specially decorated the night before, his tongue poked out and bushy eyebrows drawn together in concentration for so long that he’d had a headache. Jamison quizzically glances at them, then over to Mako, and back again. Putting two and two together, he snatches the container from Tek, giving an overt wink. 

“I got ya, boss. I’m on it.” 

“Give credit where credit is due,” Tekhartha intones, gesturing to the container. “I know you want to make a good impression.” 

“Aye, aye!” 

When he turns back to Mako, the man has produced a small, worn paperback book from one of his massive pockets; held carefully in his massive hands, it seems almost like a book for infants, but a dense wall of text is on both of the yellow-aged pages. Jamison edges close to him, leaning in to unabashedly squint over his shoulder. 

“...A western, eh? Ain’t ya livin’ a Western? Why read about it?” 

Mako turns the page. For a long, awkward minute, Jamie thinks he is just going to ignore him. 

“S’not the same.” 

“Eh?” 

“I can’t ride horses. Only bandits these days are the government. And no more saloons.” 

The answer, oddly simple, makes him blink and then giggle. “You’re right, mate. World went to shit when saloons went out of style. Here: I brought ya a little somethin’-somethin’. Tek said you liked ‘em, so I made up a big ol’ batch of dough, labored over it for hours, you know? Had to mix the icing just right, get the right color - had to throw it out three times! Not pink enough, I said, nothin’ but the best for--” 

“Jamie...,” Tekhartha warns from across the way, rolling his eyes. 

Mako makes a strange sound, turning another page. It takes a moment for Jamie to realize that his heaving belly and the small snorts are laughter, and then he’s beaming, chest puffed out. “Okay, okay, but I did make ‘em just for you, big guy. They’re all yours.” He thrusts the container out, and once again finds himself waiting for Mako, should he decide to respond. 

Another turned page, and he carefully slides a stalk of grass between the pages, closing it and settling it on his wide lap. Fat fingers take the container from Jamison, and he spends a second prying open the lid to peer inside. The sight of a dozen cartoonishly-garish pigs greets him, and for the second time today, Jamison has a heart attack. He makes a peculiar sound in his throat, barely able to breathe around the knot there, and his prosthetic hand beats at his own belly. 

“Thank you,” Mako says graciously, leaning back his head to finally look him in the eyes. “They are very cute.” 

If you’d asked Jamie, he would have told you that was an offer of marriage. He bounces on his toes, crooked teeth bared in a grin big enough to make his cheeks hurt. “They’re tasty as, too.” Suddenly remembering something, he thrusts his good hand into his pocket, emerging with a half-crushed cream puff of his own. There’s not a hint of shame when he shoves it into his mouth, continuing to grin around his stuffed mouth. He nearly chokes when Mako carefully picks one up and pops it into his mouth in response. 

The groan Mako gives is orgasmic. 

“Very good,” Mako agrees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and cradling the container to his chest. 

Over Jamie’s shoulder, Tek calls out, “Enjoy them, Mako! You deserve them. Jamison, do you mind watching the stall for a moment?” The other doesn’t respond, still staring at Mako as though he’d found god himself. “Jamie?” He blinks, clears his throat, and finally turns around, his mind still on the man behind him. “Watch the stall for a few minutes?” Tekhartha patiently repeats, gesturing to the money lockbox. 

“Oh, uh- sure, sure. You goin’ somewhere?” Jamie chances one more glance behind him, watching Mako carefully close the container and set it with his personal things. 

“Yes, I think Ms Zhou just finished setting up, and I’ve got a bit of business to discuss with her. I shouldn’t be long,” Tek promises, unfolding his long legs from his position in the chair and stretching briefly, arms above his head. “Just a few questions about the bees.” 

“Go ahead, boss. I’ll hold down the fort.” 

Tekhartha thanks him, pausing to gather a potted herb under each arm before setting off. It’s still early enough in the morning to be comfortable, the shade of two lines of trees a lovely contribution to staving off the heat. Tekhartha tilts back his head, eyes catching on an oak tree in the last stages of budding new leaves; the air feels clean here, the semi-sweet scent of produce mingling with that of chlorophyll and fresh Texas dirt. From all around him comes quiet conversations, sprinkled with the occasional sound of a child’s laugh, and, further in the distance, the slow traffic of the main road. Life is here, of all sorts, and Tekhartha drinks it in, thriving on it, using its mere existence as a focus for his inner peace. 

By the time he reaches the right stall, his body feels airy and light, as though on his next step he might float up and away; his smile comes easy and affectionate, a genuine outpouring of love for everyone around him. 

“Good morning, Mei, I hope the day finds you well?” 

A young woman sits cross-legged on a metal folding chair, head bowed low to the table as she studies a thick paper-bound book. Knowing Mei-Ling, Tekhartha would hazard a guess towards it being the latest apiology academic journal. The round glasses she always wears are perched on the edge of her nose, perilously close to sliding off, but she doesn’t seem to notice the fact - nor does she notice Tekhartha. 

Tekhartha is happy to wait patiently for a moment, and is rewarded with a cheery smile as she glances up and takes in the slender man. Sliding a bookmark in place, she pushes the book aside (he is pleasantly surprised to recognize it as a back-issue of North American Fauna) and leans over her table to better speak with him: “Hard not to, on a day like this. So pretty out, it really feels like spring! Who are those for?” She gestures to the two plants propped against his hips, eyes sparkling with a knowing and hopeful expression. This song and dance has been going on for the better part of a decade, but they never abandon their pleasantries.

“Yours, now. I thought you’d get good use out of them - my bees have certainly appreciated them for the past few months. Perhaps now it’s your turn.” 

She gives a delighted gasp, immediately reaching out to take one and examine it. “Thyme! Oh, it looks so healthy! You’ve grown large and strong, haven’t you,” She murmurs to the plant, gently touching a few flowers as she looks it over. When she glances back up, clutching the plant to her chest, she is grinning. “Your herbs are always the happiest plants I’ve seen, Tek. I hope I can keep it as healthy as you have. My bees will appreciate it, too.” 

“I thank you for the compliment, Mei-Ling. You never fail to flatter me. Here, they’re both yours,” he says, passing off the other and then brushing his hands clean, visibly content at her contagious happiness. 

“Oh, you must take some- well- I guess you don’t really need honey, do you?” She laughs, gesturing to the rest of her stall: dozens of jars are carefully stacked on one another, filled with amber honey, each one labelled with twine and paper. To the side is a small cardboard box filled with honeycomb and an assortment of homemade honey-fudge and toffees. There’s no produce to be found, minus the newly gifted herbs. 

Tekhartha laughs, shaking his head. “I’ve got quite the surplus of honey. My bees have been busy since the last frost ended. Thank you, though, Mei. Just enjoying the plants is enough for me. I may ask a favor, though, in return. One of my hives has been a bit sluggish... I thought perhaps the queen had died, but she’s still there, and healthy, so far as I can tell. If you could spare the time to come check on the hive in the next few weeks, I’d be very appreciative. I’ll pay your fee, as usual.” 

Mei takes on a very serious expression as she listens, and it’s clear she’s running through a dozen possibilities. She asks a few technical questions, and with each new answer she frowns a bit deeper, mouth twisting as she tries to puzzle it out. Eventually she gives a decisive nod, leaning over to rummage in the rugged field backpack beneath her chair and pulls out a tiny notebook, grabbing the pencil she’d left beside her lockbox. After consulting with a few pages, she pencils in a neat row of letters and snaps the book closed again. “Next Tuesday, then. We’ll see what is bothering the poor things.” 

Tekhartha bows to her, a hand pressed to his breast in sincere appreciation. “You are, as ever, a pioneer of the field. I’ll have lunch ready for you, and we can explore the issue together.” He glances over his shoulder, only just able to spot his own stall, where Jamie is embroiled in a conversation with a customer. “I should get back now, but thank you again, Mei. I’ll send Mako your way soon - set aside a few toffees for him, will you?” 

“Always. Have a good day, Tek!” 

“On a day like this? None has ever been lovelier, Mei-Ling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon Mako as autistic, so that's going to be at least semi-prevalent here! Next chapter will finish up the day, and Jamie will learn something rather surprising about his employer...


End file.
